Like a fallen star, shop there it laid precariously amongst the rubbish: beaming, prescription the confection majesty of the Hostess Twinkie. Perhaps it was my plummeting blood sugar but that golden, cream-centered son of a bitch was actually shinning, shining like bling-bling chingy-chingy.

Apparitions of Music video hip-hop hoes twerk and toss glitter from their thong-clad asses, producing a beautiful halo of fluorescent metal shavings and booty perspiration at 300 frames per second. Nearby, sir mixes a lot uses a bottomless Slurpee cup as a funnel to spray dem bitches from an open fire hydrant.

An obese beat falls like darkness.

“Don no what ya missin’ -ing sprayin’ that ass and makin’ it glisten -ing, anaconda fodder make(ing) ‘em holla cant take ya for lobster less Donald’s puts ‘em up for a dollah… Uh”.

Again, I attribute the fantastic mirage to low blood sugar, a spot of mustard or a bit of undigested beef…

A commencement of digression is swift and tailored.

Some misguided or careless soul had tossed the Hostess flagship into the shop garbage can. It was partially in its cellophane and its oils partially hydrogenated — positioned just so: eluding the greasy, nasty doo-doo butter rags and tobacco spit bottles that populate the can.

I surveyed my surroundings for signs of hidden cameras or other candid shenanigans. The coast was clear.

Time and space melted around us, the Twinkie and I. My pants began to fit tighter. I reached carefully into the bin, my wrist a spelunkers precise descent to the golden and cum-filled pastry. I gingerly grasped the Precious and carefully raised it from its filth-riddled nesting. Somewhere between a lobby toy crane game and the metal contacts evasion of the Operation game, I excavated my treasure. For a moment I stand stoically lit in silhouette.

I beheld the Precious and brushed phantom debris from its packaging and blew invisible particles from the cake surface in alternating gestures. I delighted in the crinkle-crinkle of the packaging. I marveled at the graphics and design. I examined the nutritional table and ingredients manifest.. Oh, my; such long-winded polysyllabism, Lord Whimsy would blush. I don’t recognize many of these words. It reads similarly to a can of Edge shaving gel.

I took a twinky-twinky whiff. It smells vaguely of hand soap. My mouth salivated and pants grew snugger still. I slowly raised the cake to my mouth and closed my eyes in reciprocation with its approach. I take a modest bite which immediately ignites my olfactory senses and prompts a successive liberal chomp.

My teeth collapse the fluffy yeast labored pockets of yellow #5 laden cake. Quasi vanilla paste contrasts, then compliments and ultimately integrates the mash. My pupils dilate fully. I chew in wide sweeping chews like a cow on cud. A warm tingle cascades up and down my arms as my pulse quickens. The fluffy cake regresses to batter and spittle kneading over hedonistic gums and teeth. The room becomes increasingly hot, too hot for comfort and perhaps even TV.

I open my eyes to see my familiar work place inexplicably transformed into a cramped boiler room-like hallway with bleeding walls. Hisses of steam and random machinery are audible over the roar of adrenaline borne blood pressure pounding in my ears. A pair of red glowing orbs manifest through a curtain of steam followed by a spry mouth of piranha teeth festooned with webbings of thick saliva. Fight or flight yields to paralysis by fear. A bulbous alcohol addled red nose rests between the eyes and teeth. Thick tufts of orange bushy hair jut perpendicular to the horrible pale face. I am tackled, Screaming and thrashing, I am clawed and stripped. Screaming and thrashing — mauled and eviscerated… The clown eats my penis.